


What It Is

by toyhto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boldly ignoring season 3 and everything since, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock comes back and John is angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29153391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: “I’m not playing a game. I’m trying to keep you here until you forgive me.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 145





	What It Is

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand another failed attempt at writing a dark and angsty story. I don't know where the fluff is coming from. Probably from [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com).

What he decides when he comes back to 221B Baker Street is that he will never let Sherlock hurt him again. He might not be a goddamn genius but he’s not stupid, either. He will not make the same mistake twice. He will not let himself think that what he and Sherlock have is anything more than what it is. They’re roommates. Friends, probably. But when Sherlock is going to disappear from him again, he’s not going to be surprised. He’s going to think that he fucking saw that coming. Or better still, he’s going to stop Sherlock from leaving.  
  
Two days after he’s moved back in, Lestrade calls him and asks him for a pint.  
  
“So, how are things?” Lestrade asks when they’ve already talked about the weather, football, climate change, John’s work and Lestrade’s divorce.  
  
“I don’t know,” John says and sips his beer.  
  
“You moved back in with him.”  
  
“Yeah,” John says. “But it’s just, you know. Practical.”  
  
It’s not practical. When he comes back, the living room floor is covered with newspapers and the flat smells of chemicals. He shouts at Sherlock and Sherlock stays perfectly still, standing on the sofa table with goggles on and the bathrobe hanging loosely around him. He tells Sherlock that Sherlock has fifteen minutes to clean up this shit, and then he goes upstairs to his bedroom and spends fifteen minutes looking at his shaking hands. He doesn’t really care about the mess. He goes back downstairs and all of it is gone. No newspapers on the floor, just a mild scent of the chemical still lingering, the windows opened, and Sherlock sitting on the sofa. He’s wearing a dress shirt now.  
  
John feels as if he’s broken something. He turns and goes back to his room.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Lestrade texts Sherlock about a case. John knows this, because Sherlock appears at the clinic. _Someone came to see you_ , Grace from the front desk tells John, and John finds Sherlock sitting in the waiting room with the patients. He’s wearing his coat, he’s shaved, and he’s got a new look in his eyes, as if he’s waiting for something bad to happen. He flinches when John says his name but walks to the room anyway and lets John close the door.  
  
“And what can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?” John asks, and Sherlock touches his left side in the way that doesn’t seem intentional. It probably is, though. Sherlock is the master of manipulation. John should remember that. “Really,” John says. “Were you bored?”  
  
“We’ve got a case,” Sherlock says and then takes John to a parking hall where there is a car with a dead man sitting in the passenger’s seat. It takes Sherlock six hours to find out who’s a murderer. By then John is tired, hungry and also wet, because it has started raining but Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. John follows him to the taxi, follows him home and to the kitchen and wonders vaguely what kind of anger this is. It’s as if he remembers he’s angry but can’t really feel it. Something’s dampening it. Maybe the way Sherlock is limping. Or that every time John couldn’t see Sherlock for a second there was a surge of terror he couldn’t explain to himself.  
  
“You’re looking at me,” Sherlock says, frowning at him. Sherlock’s thinner than he used to be. He also looks more than two years older.  
  
“You’re limping.”  
  
“I’m not,” Sherlock says, then blinks. “It’s nothing.”  
  
“Show me.”  
  
“Completely unnecessary.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John says and steps closer, “ _show me._ ”  
  
Sherlock sighs and starts taking off his trousers. Well, that was unintended. John tells himself there’s nothing more to it. It means nothing. Sherlock strips and then sits down on the table, and John leans closer and touches the skin next to the wound that looks like it’s been cut twice. It hasn’t completely healed yet. And it’s going to scar badly. “When –“  
  
“Five weeks ago,” Sherlock says. His thigh is warm under John’s fingers. Human skin. Nothing more. Could be anyone’s. “A knife.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that. And then?”  
  
“Another knife.”  
  
“You should have been more careful.”  
  
“I’m alive, aren’t I,” Sherlock says and breathes in. “Are you quite finished?”  
  
“No,” John says but steps away. He’s not going to make Sherlock show him every injury he acquired during the two years he was away. That would be pointless. “Take your shirt off as well.”  
  
Sherlock looks at John but does it anyway. John clenches and unclenches his fists. He should eat something. He should go to sleep. He should do anything except this.  
  
“On your side,” he says. “That’s…”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says, raising his arm and trying to see. There’s a bruise that’s somewhat boot-shaped. “It’s not healing well.”  
  
“I can see that,” John says and bites his lip. “Can I?” And he presses his thumb against the edge of the bruise.  
  
Sherlock flinches.  
  
John presses harder.  
  
Sherlock grabs his shoulder. It doesn’t seem like he planned it. Maybe he can drop the bullshit, then. Maybe he can stop manipulating John, if only John pushes at the right spots.  
  
“Sorry,” John says and runs his fingertips over the bruise.  
  
Sherlock is taking slow, deep breaths. “It’s alright.”  
  
“Maybe you should be a bit more careful about this. Stop running around in crime scenes, for example.”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asks in a quiet voice. He only sounds confused.  
  
“You should stop running around in crime scenes,” John says, putting a bit more effort into his voice.  
  
“…why?”  
  
He pulls his shoulders back and looks Sherlock in the eyes. “Because I say so.”  
  
Sherlock looks back at him. He feels as if they’re both trying to see through darkened glass.  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock says finally. “If you say so.”  
  
John steps back and hits his shoulder against the fridge. _Bloody hell._ And Sherlock is watching him. “Great. You have to eat, too.”  
  
“I’ll eat.”  
  
“You’re too thin. It doesn’t look good on you anymore.”  
  
“I wasn’t trying to…” Sherlock blinks, staring at him. “I will eat.”  
  
“Great,” he says again. He needs to get out of the kitchen. _Fuck_ , he needs to get out of the _house_ , but he can’t, because he can’t leave Sherlock alone, because what if Sherlock disappears again.  
  
He goes to the bathroom. There, he sits down on the closed toilet seat and listens through the door as Sherlock slowly walks around in the kitchen.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“What do I get?”  
  
John looks up from the newspaper. Sherlock is sitting in the armchair right in front of him, his knees folded and his hands steepled under his chin. “What do you mean, what do you get?”  
  
“You want me to eat,” Sherlock says. His voice sounds like he’s trying to do math in his head but is unhappy with the results. “And you want me to, and I quote, _stop running around in crime scenes._ I suppose that means no accepting cases from Lestrade.”  
  
“I didn’t say that you couldn’t accept cases,” John says. He can’t figure out why his voice sounds so steady. He certainly doesn’t feel steady. “I said, you need to rest sometimes. You aren’t invincible. And you’ve got a lot of injuries that haven’t properly healed yet.”  
  
“Very well,” Sherlock says. “What do I get?”  
  
John puts the newspaper down. “You won’t be hungry and tired all the time.”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. “Not enough.”  
  
“Alright,” John says, taking a deep breath. “What do you want?”  
  
“Sex.”  
  
John opens his mouth and then closes it again. “You want –“  
  
“ _You_ want to feed me and keep me home,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound frustrated. He doesn’t sound like he’s wondering what the fuck is wrong with John, what is exactly what he should be doing. Instead, he sounds like he’s listing facts. “That’s fine. But it’s only reasonable that I get something in return.”  
  
John swallows.  
  
“I want sex,” Sherlock says, looking straight at him.  
  
Maybe it’s a joke. “This isn’t funny, Sherlock.”  
  
“Penetrative sex, preferably,” Sherlock says. Sill listing facts. He sounds like he means it.  
  
John waits but it doesn’t start making sense. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“Watch a document, then. Even idiots manage to figure out how to have sex.”  
  
“Sherlock, stop it.”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asks and stands up. He looks impossibly tall like that, standing a few feet away from John’s armchair, looking down at John. John wants to get onto his feet, too, but that would mean admitting defeat, and also he would still be shorter. He would still be looking up. “Stop what?” Sherlock asks again, his eyes on John. He looks nervous, though. Nervous and tired and hurt and still too thin. “What am I doing?”  
  
“I don’t know,” John says.  
  
“You want to feed me, I want sex.”  
  
“It’s not a game. I’m not… we aren’t going to bargain for…” He pauses and looks away. Goddamn. He can’t think when Sherlock’s standing so close to him. He can’t think, because everything in him is still shouting that _Sherlock isn’t dead_. Sherlock is here, Sherlock is with _John_ , and it’s a fucking miracle, it’s the best thing that has ever happened to him, and it also fills him with the fucking fear that doesn’t fit anywhere. There’s one thing he knows for sure and it’s that he could never survive if he lost Sherlock again. This time, he would die. He doesn’t know how but he would.  
  
“What kind of sex?” he asks.  
  
“I told you already,” Sherlock says. “Penetrative.”  
  
“I think you’re going to have to specify a little,” John says. His face feels hot, which is just fucking unfair. He never blushes.  
  
Sherlock stares at him for a long time before speaking again. “Not oral. I don’t mean oral.”  
  
_Bloody fucking hell._ “Bloody fucking hell,” John says. He wants to grab Sherlock’s arm, touch his shoulder, push him at the chest, anything to make this easier. “I’m not going to let you fuck me.”  
  
Sherlock blinks at him. “Why would… _oh._ No, I didn’t… “  
  
“You didn’t –?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, watching him with wide eyes. “You aren’t gay.”  
  
“No,” he says slowly, “no, I’m not. So –“  
  
“So,” Sherlock says.  
  
“You want me to…”  
  
“Yes. And then I will listen to you when you tell me to _eat_. Or _rest._ ”  
  
“Those aren’t unreasonable requests, Sherlock.”  
  
“Mine isn’t either.”  
  
No, it’s not. John clears his throat. It’s not as if… as if he’s never thought about… but it has always been obvious that wasn’t going to happen. Even before. Even before Sherlock fucking _died._ Because John is John and Sherlock is Sherlock, and John likes sex and he likes Sherlock too and he wants to _touch_ people, he wants to make someone come, he wants to have sex and laugh and kiss, he wants to hold someone’s naked body in his arms. And Sherlock doesn’t want any of those things. Never wanted, not even with Irene, who was probably the closest that Sherlock ever got to fancying anyone.  
  
“Of course it’s unreasonable,” John says and stands up. He’s too close to Sherlock now. He walks to the kitchen as calmly as he can. _Tea._ He can make them tea. Tea will make everything normal again. “Absolutely not.”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock says, sounding sad and worried. John doesn’t turn to look, so he doesn’t know what’s showing on Sherlock’s face. Probably nothing.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Two weeks later, there’s a case. It goes on and on and Sherlock refuses to eat or sleep. John can’t sleep either, because he can’t leave Sherlock. When he even thinks about leaving, he remembers the first months after Sherlock’s death, sitting in his tiny flat, the gun locked to the drawer because he couldn’t trust himself with it, something in him broken as if someone had cut him in two and taken the other half. Now, he stumbles after Sherlock until he’s ready to fall asleep on his feet, and then thank god Sherlock catches the killer and they can go home. John’s left hand starts twitching even before the door is closed behind them.  
  
“Fine,” he says, hangs his coat, finds out he doesn’t know what to do then. He pulls his shoulders back and looks at Sherlock, who looks like a ghost. John’s own personal ghost.  
  
There must be something about John’s tone, because Sherlock stops pacing around and turns to him.  
  
“Fine,” he says again. “It’s a deal. Penetrative sex. And you will listen to me when I say that you need to sleep or eat.”  
  
Sherlock goes very still. He’s exhausted, it’s obvious, he’s so exhausted he could probably fall asleep in a minute. But he’s also looking at John as if he’s waiting for a slap in the face.  
  
John bites his lip. There’re things he should ask. He should ask why Sherlock wants to… wants John to fuck him, apparently. There must be a reason. Maybe it’s an experiment. Or maybe Sherlock is trying to get back at John somehow. Maybe it’s revenge, because John asked him not to starve himself to death. Or maybe… maybe Sherlock has figured out that there have been times when John has thought about this, this particular possibility between them, even though it never really was a possibility, it was just… just a thought. Just an idea. Maybe Sherlock knows and is going to use it against John, to make John feels like he owes Sherlock.  
  
“I’ll do it,” John says. Thank god his voice is steady now. Sherlock is going to fucking lose with this one, because John already owes him everything. “Whatever you want. But you need to tell me. I want specifics. I don’t want to guess.”  
  
Sherlock licks his lips and swallows. John blinks. What if he glances at Sherlock’s mouth, or Sherlock’s throat? It doesn’t make a difference anymore. They’re going to fuck.  
  
“It might be better if you guessed,” Sherlock says. “I’m not an expert.”  
  
John laughs.  
  
“I’m not,” Sherlock says in a thin voice. “Don’t laugh. You know this.”  
  
“You’re an expert in everything,” John says. It’s a little cruel. But nothing is as cruel as pretending you’re dead for two years.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock says and shifts on his feet. “I will… I’m going to think about, and I will… I will let you know.”  
  
“Now?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, sharp and clear. For a second he looks scared. Then he turns, walks to the kitchen, turns again, goes to his bedroom and closes the door.  
  
John looks at his own hands. Steady again. He eats a little, brushes his teeth, washes his face, takes a piss, and goes upstairs. He’s going to sleep ten fucking hours. _At least_. He sits down on the edge of his bed, opens his zipper, closes his zipper, stands up and goes to Sherlock’s bedroom.  
  
The light is off, but the curtains are open. Sherlock is lying on his back on the bed. He’s taken his clothes off except for his boxers and the dress shirt he’s been wearing since yesterday morning. He glances at John and says nothing.  
  
“Sorry,” John says and sits down on the floor next to Sherlock’s bed. His knee protests. He ignores it.  
  
“Don’t,” Sherlock says. His voice is low and quiet and so familiar John wants to cry. There was a time when he cried a lot. Too much. Didn’t remember how to stop. Hit himself in the face once, to make it stop, only he hit a bit too hard and it bruised.  
  
“You’re angry,” Sherlock says.  
  
John shakes his head.  
  
“You are. Because I let you think I was dead.”  
  
“That was…” John takes a deep breath. “That was the cruellest fucking thing anyone’s ever…”  
  
“I didn’t realise.”  
  
John closes his eyes.  
  
“You are _you_. You can handle anything. I didn’t think…”  
  
“I couldn’t handle that,” John says. “Not at all.” He’s quiet for a moment. When he opens his eyes, Sherlock is looking at him from the bed. “I’m handling it very badly, even now.”  
  
“It’s a reasonable request. That I eat and sleep sometimes.” Sherlock pauses. “Mine wasn’t.”  
  
John takes a deep breath. He feels like he’s holding something in his hands, and he doesn’t know what it is, but he knows he must not break it. “It is. It’s basically the same thing. Eating, sleeping, sex. Just basic human needs.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, “no, sex is different.” He’s right, of course.  
  
“You’re wrong,” John says. “I’m asking you to eat and sleep, because I… I want you to. I can’t handle it when you don’t. And you’re asking for sex because you… who knows. It’s not my business, really. For as long as…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You aren’t trying to…” _Oh, god._ “You aren’t trying to use me to, I don’t know, hurt yourself?”  
  
“What, by having sex?” Sherlock asks. He sounds irritated, which is fine, which is fucking perfect actually. He’s irritated because he thinks that was a stupid thing to ask, which means it isn’t true. “No, John.”  
  
“Good. Great.”  
  
“What about you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Sherlock stares at him.  
  
“No,” he says, “no, I’m not… I’m not trying to _hurt_ myself, Sherlock, I’m… I missed you so much.”  
  
“I missed you, too,” Sherlock says. He sounds like he’s weighting the words.  
  
“Not as much as I missed you,” John says and then stands up before Sherlock manages to speak again, because he can’t take this anymore. He hasn’t slept in two days and this is a little bit too much. “I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me up unless there’s an emergency. Like, if the house is on fire. And don’t go anywhere when I’m sleeping.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth.  
  
“I mean –“  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, “no, it’s alright. I won’t leave the flat. Not when you’re sleeping.”  
  
John clears his throat. Thank god no one sees him like this, no one except Sherlock. He should laugh and apologise and tell Sherlock that he doesn’t have _issues_ or anything. Sherlock is a goddamn adult, John doesn’t _own_ him, and he can go anywhere he wants. “…promise?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I promise. I will be here when you wake up. Or… probably in the living room.”  
  
“Living room is fine,” John says and leaves.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“We need something to eat,” John says when they leave the morgue. They’re on a case, have been the whole afternoon, and he’s hungry.  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth. John can hear it all in the breath Sherlock takes in. _Eat? We’re on a case, John! I don’t eat when I’m working, it slows down my big brilliant brain. If you can’t keep up with me, maybe I’ll just disappear from you for two years.  
  
_“Okay,” Sherlock says.  
  
“What?” Lestrade asks, glancing between them. “What did you say?”  
  
“We need something to eat,” John says, trying to keep himself from grinning. “It’s time for dinner.”  
  
“It _is?_ ” Lestrade asks, sounding utterly confused. Then he glances at his watch. “Oh, right. You’re right. But you never –“  
  
“Is takeout acceptable?” Sherlock asks. “We could bring it to the station with us.”  
  
“Sure,” John says, “but you’re going to sit down and eat it there.”  
  
Sherlock glances at him. He glances back.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Good lord,” says Lestrade.  
  
It’s only later that John really lets himself think about it. The case is solved, Lestrade arrested the killer, and Sherlock slept for almost six hours. John drinks his tea the next morning and then says he’s going out for a bit. Sherlock nods. He might not be listening, but John isn’t in a mood to repeat himself. He takes his shoes and coat and goes to buy condoms. A few minutes later, he goes back and buys lube. He’s probably got both at home already, but he can’t remember. And maybe he should have asked Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock has preferences. Maybe Sherlock likes… fancy lube and condoms that taste of vanilla. Not that Sherlock is going to get his mouth on one, because he’s not. That’s not the plan. The plan is that John…  
  
John takes a few very deep breaths and goes back home. Sherlock hasn’t moved. John puts the condoms and the lube on the kitchen table and then goes to take a shower. When he comes back, Sherlock is in the kitchen, holding the condom packet.  
  
“This isn’t your size,” Sherlock says, not looking at John.  
  
“Of course it is.”  
  
Sherlock puts the condoms back onto the table. He’s moving very slowly. “This morning, I have… I was going to… I am going to write something about the different combinations of…”  
  
“I should write something for the blog,” John says. “About our last two cases. I get e-mails, you know, people asking me why I haven’t blogged about you coming back. I think I’m going to start with that now.”  
  
Sherlock blinks.  
  
“I just bought those,” John says, glancing at the table. “So that I’ll be prepared when you want me to… you know.”  
  
“Sex.”  
  
“Yeah. That. But maybe you already had stuff like that.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says. His voice sounds thin. “I didn’t have…”  
  
“Condoms and lube. Okay, so it’s good that I got those. I’m going to make myself tea, do you want some?”  
  
“Tea?” Sherlock asks, blinking. “No. No, yes. Yes, I want tea. Thank you.”  
  
John makes them tea. Then he sits in his armchair and Sherlock sits at the table and they both write, only when he glances at Sherlock, Sherlock usually just sits there, staring at the wall. Maybe he’s thinking. About different combinations of something John doesn’t want to know about.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“They’ll realise you’re angry at me,” Sherlock says, looking up from John’s laptop.  
  
“What?” John asks, even though he knows already.  
  
“People who read this. They’re going to realise you’re angry at me. This sounds like… like you’re testing me, or like I’m on a… probation.”  
  
“You aren’t on a probation.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him. “Really?”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Of course I am,” Sherlock says. “You haven’t forgiven me. I don’t think you have decided whether you’re going to.”  
  
“Of course I’m going to forgive you,” John says. “I don’t have a choice.”  
  
“Of course you have a choice.”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
“Yes, you have.”  
  
“What choice? To leave? To just leave you here and go live somewhere else and not be friends anymore?”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t even blink.  
  
Well, alright, John has a choice. But it’s not much of a choice. To think that he would go anywhere else, when he knows that Sherlock is _here_ , alive and… not exactly well, but breathing… He could never do that. He would just come right back.  
  
“I’m going to forgive you,” he says.  
  
“When?”  
  
“Eventually.”  
  
“John –“  
  
“So, do you want me to edit it? The blog post? What should I say? That you came back after two years and we hugged and I moved back in and everything is just fucking brilliant?”  
  
“You didn’t hug me.”  
  
“No.” But he had wanted to. He had wanted to do everything, so he had just turned and walked away. He had walked for at least twenty steps before he had turned back. Sherlock had still been there, in the park in a sunny day with his long black coat and scared eyes. John had walked back to him and they had spent fifteen minutes sitting on the bench, side by side, saying nothing. “Just tell me what to write,” John says now. “On the blog. I’ll do what you want.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, stands up and passes the laptop back to John. “Just post it. I don’t mind.”  
  
“If you want me to change it –“  
  
“No. It’s your blog. Are you –“  
  
“What?” John asks, when Sherlock stays quiet.  
  
Sherlock clears his throat. “Hungry?”  
  
“I’m not sure. Are you?”  
  
“Maybe,” Sherlock says, his eyes on John. There are some things that John didn’t remember he missed, like this one: Sherlock looking at him.  
  
“I’ll get us something,” John says and takes his phone. “Chinese?”  
  
They eat in the living room with the television on. There’s a nature document about penguins on and Sherlock snorts at it at first and then watches the whole thing looking oddly fascinated. He doesn’t look as tired as when he came back from… Serbia, or whatever it was. John has tried not to ask. He’s too angry. He can’t think about the time Sherlock was away and all the fucking things that were so important Sherlock couldn’t even send him a fucking postcard. When Sherlock tried to explain how necessary it was that John knew nothing, he almost punched Sherlock in the face. So, none of that. It’s bad enough that Sherlock has the injuries from when John wasn’t there to help him.  
  
The nature document ends. Then there’s sports. Sherlock stays on the sofa. John puts up the volume. It’s rugby, he likes that. He played a bit when he was younger. He only leaves the armchair to make them tea. After rugby, there’s some kind of a talk show, and another, and it’s midnight, and Sherlock is watching him.  
  
“What?” he asks without turning his head. “Are you tired?”  
  
Sherlock frowns at him. “Are you?”  
  
“Not really,” he says. Of course he’s tired. He’s been watching television for hours.  
  
“You look tired.”  
  
“Alright, I’m tired, ten points for your observation skills. What now, are you going to tell me it’s past my bedtime?”  
  
“No, I…” Sherlock takes a deep breath, then sighs, rubs his chin with his thumb, glances away, then looks back at John. “Shouldn’t we…”  
  
“What?”  
  
Sherlock clears his throat. “Sex.”  
  
John crosses his legs. “You decide, Sherlock.”  
  
“I don’t –“  
  
“Yeah, you do. I tell you to eat and rest and for that, I will…” _Goddamn._ “I will fuck if you want me to.”  
  
Sherlock blinks and blinks and blinks.  
  
“So, you decide, when,” John says.  
  
“I can’t decide that,” Sherlock says in a sharp voice. “I don’t know what… what factors I should… what I should consider.”  
  
_Oh, god._ John takes the remote control and switches the television off. Sherlock is looking at him as if he’s in trouble and expects John to save him. That has happened a few times, but it has usually involved a stabbing or something else that requires medical knowledge.  
  
“I mean,” John says, trying to sound as gentle as he can. It’s apparently easier when Sherlock’s so obviously out of his depth. It’s easier not to be angry. “I _mean_ , you tell me when you want to have sex, and we’ll do it then. It’s so simple.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him for a long time. “Now.”  
  
He swallows. “Now?”  
  
Sherlock nods.  
  
“You want to have sex now?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says, straightening his back. “I don’t think I can sleep if I keep thinking… You bought condoms and lube.”  
  
“Yeah, I did,” John says, and then, for some reason, “there’s no rush.”  
  
Sherlock frowns at him.  
  
“But sure,” he says and grabs his knees, “fine, why not? Let’s have sex. Do you want me to take a shower? Because I can.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, “there’s no need, you showered this morning and there hasn’t been any physical exercise today, and also…”  
  
“Yeah?” John asks, chewing on his lower lip.  
  
“Also, I like your… scent,” Sherlock says and frowns. “It’s not unpleasant.”  
  
“You like my –“  
  
“However, I am going to take a shower,” Sherlock says and stand up so quickly John almost flinches, “because you’re going to…” And then Sherlock makes a hand gesture that could mean pretty much anything, and still John believes he caught the meaning. He looks away from Sherlock. “Yes, exactly,” Sherlock says and walks to the bathroom with hasty steps. “So, a shower. And maybe I should google –“  
  
“No googling,” John says and then clears his throat, because his voice is coming out oddly hoarse. “Don’t google it. If you start reading about it, we won’t get anything done until the morning. I’m a doctor, Sherlock. I basically know how a human body works. And I’ve seen it all before. Just… no googling, just tell me what you want.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him.  
  
“But you can take a shower,” he says. “I’ll wait here. Just don’t panic in there.”  
  
“I’m not panicking,” Sherlock says and locks himself in the bathroom.  
  
  
**  
  
  
John knocks on the bathroom door when the water has stopped running for a while ago.  
  
“A minute,” Sherlock says through the door.  
  
John knocks again. “Let me in.”  
  
There’s a short silence, then steps, and then Sherlock at the door. He’s wrapped a towel around his waist and his hair is wet. He has a scar under his left collarbone, faintly pink and new. Less than two years. John brushes it with his thumb.  
  
“I hate it that you have new injuries,” he says. Sherlock’s skin is still damp from the shower. He hasn’t dried himself. Maybe he has just stood there, watching the wall and panicking. “Someone hurt you and I wasn’t there.”  
  
“You wanted to be there when I was being –“  
  
“I would’ve shot them,” John says and squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
Sherlock stays perfectly still. “Maybe I didn’t want you to go to prison.”  
  
“Maybe you should’ve let me decide for myself.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth.  
  
“Anyway,” John says, because he doesn’t want to be angry, not now, when Sherlock’s practically naked and dripping water onto the tile floor. “I don’t think you want to have sex with me.”  
  
Sherlock frowns at him. “What?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says. His hand is still resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. He touches Sherlock’s neck with his thumb, draws a circle, brushes against Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock swallows. “You have to remember, I have dated _a lot._ And I have… I’m quite capable of recognising when someone doesn’t want to sleep with me.”  
  
“I asked of this,” Sherlock says. His voice is low and rumbling and if he’s not doing that on purpose, he’s an idiot. “My end of the bargain.”  
  
“I don’t know why you did that,” John says, “but surely not for wanting to have sex with me.”  
  
Sherlock swallows again. John leaves his thumb on his throat. “Why not?”  
  
“I told you. You don’t want to have sex with me.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, takes a deep breath, looks away, looks at him again. “You aren’t completely stupid.”  
  
“Thank you,” he says. Goddamn, he hates this bastard.  
  
“I mean,” the bastard says, “you aren’t that stupid.”  
  
“Yeah, well, no, I’m not.” He raises his other hand so that he can get both his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock is very tense. He should get a massage. “You’re playing a game. With me. And I don’t like it.”  
  
“You’re wrong,” Sherlock says, watching him. He circles his fingers around Sherlock’s neck. He’s very careful about it. “I’m not playing a game. I’m trying to keep you here until you forgive me.”  
  
“Sounds like you’re playing,” John says. He can feel Sherlock’s breaths on his wrists. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse against his thumb. “You’re pretending you want to have sex with me. Why the fuck would you do that, if you aren’t playing?”  
  
“I really thought you were cleverer.”  
  
John swallows. “Well, I’m a constant disappointment, right?”  
  
“You’re proving my point.”  
  
“What point?”  
  
“That you should be cleverer.”  
  
John opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. He might be offended, if he didn’t have his hands on Sherlock’s neck. “Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes?” Sherlock asks.  
  
John tightens his grip just a little. Just to let Sherlock know what he’s talking about. “Why’re you letting me do this?”  
  
“You tell me,” Sherlock says. He’s breathing harder now. He’s starting to get flushed, too, even though John isn’t squeezing, not even a little bit. He’s just holding his hands there. Nice and steady. Around Sherlock’s throat.  
  
“Because you’re a mad bastard.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Because you… are you going to make me pay somehow?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says. “I’m only trying to make you stay.”  
  
“So, you’re using sex to make me stay. You are… do you think I want to have sex with you? Is that why you’re doing this? You think I’m going to get addicted and stay with you?”  
  
Sherlock blinks at him.  
  
“Because that’s just pointless, Sherlock, I’m already… I wouldn’t know where to go. I wouldn’t know what to do. And yeah, I want to have sex with you, but that’s a tiny part in it, just a detail. You don’t need to sleep with me to make me stay.”  
  
Sherlock clears his throat. It vibrates against John’s palms. “You want to –“  
  
“Tell me if I’m… if my hands are…”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, “no, you aren’t strangling me. I don’t know what I see in you. You really are an idiot.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to insult a man who’s holding you by the throat.”  
  
“I said I want sex with you because I want sex with you,” Sherlock says and leans forwards. It’s like he’s pushing his throat into John’s hands. John pulls his hands away without thinking, and Sherlock takes a step closer to him and takes off his towel, then throws it at the washing machine and misses. The towel falls onto the floor. That’s not good. It’s a white towel. It shouldn’t be on the floor. John breathes in and out and doesn’t know what to say. Someone should pick up the towel. “I want to have sex with you,” Sherlock says. He’s hard. “That’s why I asked. But I didn’t think you’d say yes. I thought you’d drop the eating and resting.”  
  
“You have to rest sometimes,” John says, his voice coming out thin. “You’re only a human. Like the rest of us.”  
  
“You think so?” Sherlock asks. He sounds hopeful.  
  
John nods, keeps his hands behind his back, fiddles with his fingers. He shouldn’t look at Sherlock’s dick. He’s looking anyway. Sherlock took the towel off. It’s not a coincidence. The universe is not so lazy. And Sherlock is the best manipulator John has ever met. The goddamn bastard could make John believe anything, _did_ make John believe he was fucking _dead,_ so that only proves it, right? Sherlock could make John believe that he wants to have sex with John. Sherlock could… but it really seems a little improbable that Sherlock could get his dick hard just to manipulate John.  
  
John clears his throat. Oh, god. _Oh, god._ “You want to have sex with me.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says, glaring at him as if _he_ is the one who’s not making any sense.  
  
“Are you gay or something?”  
  
“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock says. Okay, now he’s really glaring.  
  
John takes a step back. “So…”  
  
“Gay,” Sherlock says, “very, very, very gay. I don’t know if I can take you to crime scenes anymore. You clearly cannot comprehend speech and your observation skills are minuscule.”  
  
“What?” John asks. It feels a bit weird, staring at Sherlock like this when Sherlock’s naked and still at least half-hard, even though this conversation doesn’t seem to be doing anything good for his erection. But John has to say something. He can’t just walk away and make tea and leave Sherlock here. “It’s not as if you ever told me.”  
  
“Oh my _god,”_ Sherlock says, and it’s sounds a little bit fancy and posh like everything else he says, and John is definitely regretting that he let go of Sherlock’s throat. “Remember when we were in Angelo’s for the first time? You asked me if I’ve got a boyfriend. You said it’s fine. I said it’s fine.”  
  
“You remember that?” John asks. _He_ remembers it, of course. He remembers all of it. He remembers the late dinner they had after he had shot a man for Sherlock. He remembers feeling oddly hopeful about his life. “You said you were married to your work.”  
  
“Yes, because you were checking me out and I panicked.”  
  
John takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t _checking you out_.” He looks down, because he can’t keep looking Sherlock in the eyes and talking about this, but what he sees now is Sherlock’s dick, so that isn’t much better. Not that he doesn’t like Sherlock’s dick, because he… Oh, _shit._ “I wasn’t checking you out,” he tells Sherlock. “And what do you mean, you panicked?”  
  
“I had just met you,” Sherlock says. He’s talking slowly now, as if he’s not sure that John can follow. That’s probably wise. “We had moved in together. You were perfect. A soldier and a doctor, and… your face, and… the things you said to me. And then you asked me if I have a boyfriend.”  
  
“I didn’t mean…” John rubs his nose. “I wasn’t trying to hit on you.”  
  
“Yes, well, I didn’t realise that. I’m not always… this isn’t my area.”  
  
John swallows. “Well, I’m kind of not doing very great myself. At the moment.”  
  
“You’re perfect,” Sherlock says in his _just listing facts_ voice. John always loved that voice, even when it was driving him up the wall.  
  
He takes a few steps away from Sherlock and sits down on the closed toilet seat.  
  
“I hadn’t had a relationship in ten years,” Sherlock says. “I had been quite certain I never would again. And then, there you were. I panicked.”  
  
“But I wasn’t… I wasn’t really asking…”  
  
“I noticed that. Quite soon.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John says and takes a deep breath. He presses his elbows against his knees, leaning forward. If he keeps his eyes on the floor, he doesn’t have to see either Sherlock’s eyes or his cock. “What are you saying? Are you saying that you… like me?”  
  
Sherlock laughs. It sounds all wrong.  
  
“I mean,” John says, “obviously you _like_ me at some level, but I mean… as a gay… person? Do you actually like me?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says, probably staring at John, but John’s not going to look up. “Yes, I like you, you idiot.”  
  
“But I’m not gay,” John says. “I’ve slept with a lot of women. Like, _a lot_. Thirty, or… maybe forty, or…”  
  
“I’m aware,” Sherlock says, and suddenly he’s going somewhere. John glances at him. He walks to the towel, picks it up from the floor, frowns at it and leaves it there. Then he takes John’s towel, sniffs at it and wraps it around his shoulders, so that John can still see his dick, which is just absurd, everything about this is absurd. “I’m going to make tea,” Sherlock says and leaves the bathroom.  
  
John gets onto his feet and follows Sherlock. He finds Sherlock in the kitchen, naked, filling the kettle. John’s towel is on the floor.  
  
“That’s my towel.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to ask anything of you,” Sherlock says, not looking at him. “Not anything like this. I don’t really care that much. I can… for as long as we are friends, I can… I was just going to ignore the…”  
  
“The what?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“You have to tell me,” John says. “With words. I’m an idiot, remember? I need words.”  
  
“I need words, too,” Sherlock says, chewing on his lower lip. “Why can’t you just forgive me? It’s not like I wanted to do it. To disappear. I wanted to… I wanted to be here with you, but…”  
  
“It’s not that simple,” John says. Fucking hell, he sounds sad. “I just… you fucking ripped me apart when you died.”  
  
“I wasn’t really dead.”  
  
“You were. For two years. And you can’t… you can’t take those two years away from me. The memory of how it was.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it again.  
  
“I thought about killing myself,” John says. It sounds so absurd. Naïve. Ridiculous, really. It didn’t feel ridiculous at the time. “I wouldn’t have done it, I think. But I wasn’t sure. I felt like… I was walking near to a cliff, and I didn’t know where exactly it was, and I _thought_ I wasn’t going to fall but I… I wasn’t sure.”  
  
“You aren’t allowed to kill yourself,” Sherlock says. He’s forgotten about the kettle, thank god. “I forbid it.”  
  
“You were dead. You had no right to forbid me for anything.”  
  
“I have now.”  
  
“And you did that. You did exactly that to me. You killed yourself and made me watch.”  
  
Sherlock steps away from the counter and sits down. John goes to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, keeps it there.  
  
“You should put some clothes on,” John says. “You’re going to freeze.”  
  
“I thought we were going to have sex,” Sherlock says in a thin voice.  
  
“Maybe not tonight.”  
  
“I showered… I tried to clean my… you were going to fuck me.”  
  
_Good lord._ “Let me be angry at you for a little longer. I don’t know how to let go of it yet, but I’ll find out. I swear I’m going to forgive you. Eventually. And until that, I’m not…” The skin on the back of Sherlock’s neck is so soft to touch. John brushes it with his fingers, then keeps petting. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“You’ll stay until you forgive me.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I’m naked.”  
  
“Yeah, I noticed.”  
  
“You were looking at my penis.”  
  
John laughs. He can’t help it, he just can’t, that’s… that’s not supposed to be _hot._ “Yeah. Yeah, I was. I was looking at your _penis._ ”  
  
“Why are you laughing? What’s funny?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“John, if you’re insulting my –“  
  
“No, of course not,” John says, and he’s laughing again but there’s nothing he can do about that, and also he doesn’t want to. “I’m not insulting your _penis_ , Sherlock, good lord, no. But maybe in the future, in situations like this, you might want to refer to it as, well, as your _cock_ , for example.”  
  
“My cock,” Sherlock says, looking at him.  
  
He smiles and then bites his lip. “Yeah. That’s good. Sit there, I’m going to get you something to wear.”  
  
“From your wardrobe?” Sherlock asks, frowning fiercely. “John, you use synthetic fibre.”  
  
“Sure,” John says. “Where do you keep your boxers? In the drawer?”  
  
“The second top box. You don’t have to –“  
  
“Sit there,” he says again and goes to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock’s boxers are folded neatly and sorted by the colour. Like a fucking rainbow, only all the colours are quite dark. Dark blue, dark grey, dark green, dark purple. No comic pants, apparently.  
  
“You’re surprised about my underwear collection,” Sherlock says, when John gets back and puts the pile of clothes into his lap. There’re dark green boxers, a white t-shirt, pyjama trousers and a dressing gown that feels so soft to touch that John may or may not have spent a few seconds stroking the fabric.  
  
“Put those on,” John says. “I’ll make tea.” He fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. “I thought, maybe we could sit on the sofa and watch something.”  
  
“That’s what we have been doing the whole day.”  
  
“Yeah, but…” He clears his throat. “We could sit a bit closer to each other.” He can feel Sherlock staring at him. When he glances over his shoulder, Sherlock has managed to put on the boxers and the t-shirt but isn’t doing anything about the trousers. “Just tell me if this isn’t what you had in mind,” John says, “but I thought that I could… maybe I could put my arm on your shoulder.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Sherlock says slowly. “You’re shorter than me. You’ll hurt your shoulder.”  
  
John swallows.  
  
“But we’ll figure it out,” Sherlock says. “Maybe I should sit on the floor.”  
  
He doesn’t sit on the floor, though. He sits on the sofa, next to John, and they lean towards each other until their shoulders bump. John drapes his arm over Sherlock’s shoulders and well, maybe it would be more practical to do this the other way round, but he’s always been the one in the relationship to have his arm on the other’s shoulder. And Sherlock manages to shrink a little, maybe because he’s kind of slowly falling against John until he has his head on John’s shoulder and his nose pushed against John’s neck. The posture looks utterly uncomfortable. John strokes Sherlock’s arm. He doesn’t know what’s happening and he doesn’t want to think about it now.  
  
  
**  
  
  
In the morning, Sherlock is jumpy and not looking John in the eyes. John fries eggs and tells Sherlock to eat, and Sherlock does, and that’s nice, and a little unnerving, and John wonders if they’re in a relationship now. It certainly seemed like that last night. Now, he touches Sherlock’s hand over the table and Sherlock freezes, stops chewing too, even though he has food in his mouth. John keeps his hands there and slowly, Sherlock recovers.  
  
“I dreamed about you,” John says later. They have stumbled through the day. John had a six-hour-shift at the clinic and when he came back, Sherlock was doing some kind of an experiment but in his own room this time. John cooked them dinner and Sherlock appeared in the kitchen when it was time to eat. John asked how Sherlock’s day had been. Sherlock told him about the experiment and half an hour later asked how his day had been. There had been a lot of flu patients at the clinic. Very boring. He told Sherlock that. “All kinds of dreams,” he says now, when they’re in the living room, he in his armchair and Sherlock on the sofa. He can tell from Sherlock’s posture that he’s got Sherlock’s whole attention. “Bad ones, too. Like, sometimes I… I hit you, or something.”  
  
He takes a deep breath. Sherlock doesn’t say anything.  
  
“I think maybe I was angry and that kind of… spilled into my dreams. Doesn’t take a degree on psychology to figure that. But also, there were… there were dreams in which you never died and we were here, at home, and everything was back to normal, and then sometimes… sometimes I woke up and realised I had been crying.”  
  
Sherlock is looking at him now.  
  
“And sometimes I had sex dreams about you,” he says and rubs his nose. “Some were vague, like we were in bed, but I didn’t know what we were doing. And some were… not so vague.” He closes his mouth. The clock on the wall is ticking. He can hear the traffic from outside. He picks up his cup of tea and his heart is beating in his fingers.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, “I hope you realise that I… I don’t know what you want from me, but whatever it is, you’ve got it.”  
  
“You can’t just promise me that,” John says and looks away. “I’m not a very good person.”  
  
“Yesterday, when you had your hands on my throat… You imagined hurting me. And it helped. It helped you somehow.”  
  
John swallows. “You got hard.”  
  
“You were touching me.”  
  
“You aren’t supposed to get hard from… violence.”  
  
“Not violence,” Sherlock says. “You.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have hurt you, you know.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Of course it does.”  
  
“I mean, you’d never… you’d never endanger me. In any way. I trust you with that.”  
  
“But you don’t trust that I wouldn’t hurt you.”  
  
“Maybe if you had made me watch as you commit suicide,” Sherlock says slowly, “maybe I would want to hurt you too.”  
  
John nods. It feels like the wrong thing to do. He should argue. But he’s tired. “Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Do you want to sleep in my bed? Tonight?”  
  
Sherlock looks at him for a long time before answering. “Absolutely not. Your mattress is rubbish. You will sleep in my bed.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
Sherlock is too tall. His limbs are too tall. They get everywhere in bed, including in between John’s legs, and he doesn’t know what to do, but he doesn’t want to stop either. They already said good night, but then he touched Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock touched his shoulder, and he touched Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock touched his stomach, and he let out a sigh that he thought was pretty informative, and Sherlock said _what was that_ like a complete idiot. _I like you_ , John said. _I meant, what that sound was_ , Sherlock said, still an idiot. _Erection in my penis_ , John said and that seemed to be clear enough for Sherlock. _Cock_ , Sherlock said. _You’re supposed to call it a cock, John._  
  
“What should I do?” Sherlock asks now. He has his hands on John’s back, not moving, not pulling John closer, not doing anything, really.  
  
John bites his lip. He’s kind of rubbing his dick against Sherlock’s thigh, has been for a while. “Sherlock, I have to ask you something,” he says. Sherlock frowns. “Have you ever had sex?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says.  
  
“You have?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“With another human being?”  
  
“Piss off,” Sherlock says, glaring at him. “And don’t smile like that. It’s been a while. A few years.”  
  
“A few years.”  
  
“Fifteen, I think.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
“Fourteen years and three months,” Sherlock says. Then something shifts on his face. “It wasn’t good.”  
  
John freezes. “Not good?”  
  
“I mean, it wasn’t… it wasn’t _not_ good, it was just…”  
  
“They didn’t hurt you?”  
  
“ _No._ Nothing like that. I just… I liked him, but I don’t think he liked me, not really. He wanted to have sex, though, so we… but there was so much… input.”  
  
“Input?”  
  
“Too much. Too much of… texture, and smell, and expressions, and things to do, things you’re just supposed to know, and I didn’t like feeling… I _liked_ it, at some level, but there was… too much of it.”  
  
“And then you…”  
  
“We dated for a little bit and then it ended. He didn’t really like me.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John says and takes Sherlock’s face in between his hands. “I like you. I like you _so much._ You have no idea.”  
  
“Yes, I do,” Sherlock says. “I like you more.”  
  
“This isn’t a competition.”  
  
“Yes, it is, and you’re smiling.”  
  
“It’s really not,” John says and touches Sherlock’s lower lip with his thumb. Sherlock lets him. “Can I kiss you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Do you want me to kiss you?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“We can do this later,” John says. “We have time.”  
  
“No, we don’t,” Sherlock says. “You have a morning shift at the clinic. You should quit, by the way.”  
  
“Oh? And where will I get money then?”  
  
“I nicked Mycroft’s credit card.”  
  
“Absolutely not.”  
  
“So far, I’ve used it to buy socks. Expensive socks. I can buy milk, too.”  
  
“Sherlock –“  
  
“Do you need socks?”  
  
“Sherlock,” John says, “do you really want me to do this?”  
  
Sherlock sighs. He’s in John’s arms, lying on his side and facing the wall, because they already tried this facing each other and it didn’t work at all. Now, John has one arm draped over Sherlock’s waist, which is good, and he can kiss Sherlock’s back any time, which is good, too, and he has three fingers inside Sherlock. It took a lot of lube and concentration to get them there.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“ _Yes._ ”  
  
“It’s going to take a while.”  
  
“I don’t _care_ ,” Sherlock says and then suddenly goes quiet. “Or don’t you want to?”  
  
John presses his face against Sherlock’s back. For the last fifteen minutes at least, he’s been trying not to rub his dick against _anything._ It helped that Sherlock was so tight and he had to be careful and gentle and to think with his brain and not with his dick.  
  
He pulls his fingers out. “I want to.”  
  
“Great.”  
  
“Just tell me if you want me to stop. Anytime.”  
  
“Oh my god, John, this isn’t my _first time,_ ” Sherlock says and then stays quiet for a moment. “This is my second time.” And then he rolls over and kisses John on the mouth. He tastes of toothpaste. “John –“  
  
“Yeah,” John says, kissing back, “yeah, I think we should… can you… I think it’d be easier if you were facing the mattress.”  
  
Sherlock says something against his mouth which might be _yes_ and then pulls away, crawls onto his knees, presses his elbows against the mattress and stays there. The duvet falls off. John kisses his shoulder.  
  
“Just breathe,” he says. “You’re alright. You’re perfect.”  
  
It’s not easy. He thinks about saying that they should just drop it. Try again another day. They have time. Neither of them is going anywhere anymore. But he doesn’t say it, and he knows Sherlock is hurting but there’s this dark place inside him claiming that it doesn’t even begin to compare, the way Sherlock hurt him and the way he’s hurting Sherlock now. Besides, Sherlock asked of this. Sherlock asked John to fuck him. And his cock is still hard when John touches it, and it starts leaking when John finds the rhythm. It’s perfect. The sounds he makes are perfect. The way he keeps clenching around John is perfect. And then there’s one more moan, and John thinks that maybe he broke Sherlock, and he shouldn’t be proud, but he is, he _is_ , he tugs one more time and then stops his hand as Sherlock spills on him.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, when John pulls himself out. “Don’t… You didn’t…” And then he settles onto his side on the mattress, bats John’s hands away and grabs John’s dick. His hand is so _big_. His fingers are so _long_. And he’s looking at John’s cock as if it’s a scientific experiment. “What do you like? Slow, fast?”  
  
“Just touch me,” John says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“So, how is it going?”  
  
John shifts on his chair and takes another sip. This is his fourth beer. Lestrade is on his second, and he has a feeling that they both are trying to ignore this. “Great.”  
  
“With Sherlock, I mean,” Lestrade says. “He’s been… he’s been a little less of a…”  
  
“I know,” John says and bites his lip. Goddamn. “I’m making him eat and sleep now. You know, making him live like he’s a human.”  
  
“I didn’t think anyone could do that,” Lestrade says.  
  
John smiles into his pint. “Me neither.”  
  
“So it’s… it’s alright, then?”  
  
“…what is?”  
  
“You forgave him. For letting us think that he was dead.”  
  
“I don’t know,” John says and takes a deep breath. “It’s been… I’m so angry at him sometimes, but there’s nothing in this world that would make me give up on him.”  
  
Lestrade smiles a little.  
  
_Shit_. “I’m drunk,” John says.  
  
“No, you aren’t.”  
  
“I’m not in love with him or anything.”  
  
“Hmm,” Lestrade says, frowning at him. “So, you’re in love with him. Can’t say I'm surprised. Does he know?”  
  
John blinks and blinks and blinks. “I think so.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“What is this?” Sherlock asks one day. He’s sitting on John and he has his forefinger inside John’s mouth. He’s apparently trying to see how deep he can push it before John chokes.  
  
“This,” John says, only it comes out a little muffled because of the finger in his mouth, “is sex.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says and pulls his finger out, “I mean, _us._ ”  
  
John takes a deep breath and swallows a couple of times. He thinks he can still feel Sherlock’s finger on his tongue. “What do you mean, _us?_ ”  
  
Sherlock stares at him. He stares back. Then he realises.  
  
“You mean –“  
  
“My mother wants to see you,” Sherlock says.  
  
John bites his lip. “You have a _mother?_ ”  
  
“Yes, I have _a mother_ ,” Sherlock says, “and she wants to see you, as I told you. Does Saturday work for you?”  
  
“Why does she want to see me?”  
  
“I’m terribly afraid we have to go to a theatre with her,” Sherlock says. “And with my father. And yes, I have a father.”  
  
“Sherlock? Why do they want to see me?”  
  
Sherlock blinks. “I didn’t tell them you are my boyfriend.”  
  
John opens his mouth and closes it and opens it again. “You didn’t?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says slowly, “but I might have told them that we’re practically married.”  
  
John tries to breathe.  
  
“Sorry,” Sherlock says. It sounds like he’s testing the word.  
  
“No, don’t apologise,” John says. Oh, god, it’s difficult to think when Sherlock’s sitting on him. They should have postponed this conversation, like, for five minutes. That would have been enough. John certainly isn’t going to last long once they get back to it. “It’s fine. It’s kind of true, anyway.”  
  
“It is?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“Yeah,” John says. “By the way, did you buy milk?”


End file.
